


ambrosial

by tisapear



Series: love drunk [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Canon, Timestamp, Underage Drinking, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisapear/pseuds/tisapear
Summary: Dean had his first kiss when he was thirteen.(Or: Why Dean doesn't allow himself to get drunk.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: love drunk [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761214
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	ambrosial

Sammy's sleeping.

Kid's barely nine, all snuggled up in his blanket and Dean's too, only part of his head popping out of the fort he's made for himself. Little warm Sammy-cocoon and Dean, cold and wobbly and kind of really dizzy, needs to get in there _yesterday_.

He stumbles forward, trips over a book Sammy must've left there (thank god dad's still out and about and only supposed to be home tomorrow) and there's a noise echoing through the room as Dean, blind and drunk and in the dark, rams his leg against the side of the bed, loud as thunder and zapping twice as painful through his upper thigh. 

He rips his half-slanted eyes open, whispers, _"Shhhhhhhh,"_ to no one but himself while clumsily patting the pain-throbbing spot 'cause Sammy's sleeping, and it's been two months since Christmas and The Big Reveal but kid still has nightmares on a nightly basis, wakes up with tears clinging to the corners of his eyes and distressed muffles barely concealed in Dean's shoulder. _Can't die Dean, don't leave me Dean, Dean please no Dean_ and sob-bubbly whispers should probably make him feel terrible, and they do that, too, they really do, make him wanna hide Sammy away from the world, keep him safe far away, but there's also this warm, gooey feeling whenever Sammy says those things because it's _Dean_ he's worried about, Dean and not dad or even himself. Dean, only ever Dean. 

He blinks down at the bundle, Sammy's slightly parted lips, the way his lashes flutter even when he's asleep. The dark bruises blooming under his eyelids and Dean's reaching out with a thumb before he can stop himself, follows the tipped over half-moons down a soft, pudgy cheek, apple-red and sleepy-warm. His brother lets out a little snuffle at the touch, but doesn't seem to wake up, only squashes the other side of his face deeper into the pillow.

Thumb still stroking aimlessly over Sammy's little cheek, Dean cracks a smile, lets whiskey-heated breath wash over his lips. His vision's a little blurry at the edges, but he has every dip and curve of Sammy's face memorized, pouty lips and pointy nose and half-palm-wide cheeks. Glides his thumb down Sammy's chin and tips it up, up, nail pressing down on a rosy bottom lip, just a bit. Cherry-pie-soft against the already calloused skin.

Dean breaths out, shakily, in tandem with the warm little puffs washing over his thumb. And everything's still kind of fuzzy, liqour-watery in front of his rapidly blinking eyes. Kind of dream-like, finger _snap snap snap_ and he'll wake up. The room around him is dark and small. Only a sliver of shitty motel light's coming through not-fully-closed blinds, throws shadowy light-stripes over Sammy's face, and maybe that's why he does it. Why he leans forward and presses his lips against little Sammy's slack ones, thumb back on his chin while he's got his pointer finger secured under it, holds his brother's face just right.

Cheap toothpaste-taste on his booze-drenched tongue is suddenly the most delicious thing and Dean's already thinking about ways to savor it and put it into a pie. Could sell it and make millions, if the thought of sharing this didn't make his insides churn.

Keeps it up for an eternity of seconds like it's no big deal, kissing your sleeping little brother while your father's not home.

'cept it kind of _is_ , isn't it, 'cause there's doing wrong for the greater good and then there's— _this_. Whatever this is, whatever this can never be, whatever this _shouldn't_ be.

He lets off so quickly, there's a quiet pop resonating in his ears, Sammy's lips spit-shiny, but none of that seems to register since he's already barreling into the bathroom, throws all the oh-god-no whiskey back up.

(He's curled up on the disgusting bathroom floor with bile coating the back of his throat in bitter reminders when he vows never to get drunk again, and he might be terrible at keeping them, them and promises and good intentions, but this one—

this one, he never forgets. Never breaks.

The thing, though, _the thing is_ —it doesn't keep him from repeating past mistakes. Just takes away the convenient excuses he could make for himself.)

Dean had his first kiss when he was thirteen.

He thinks Sam was asleep.

Pitter-patterning of his tiny heart against his ribs, humming bird wild. Dean's wrapped around him, warm mouth on Sam's collarbone, one hand under his rucked-up shirt, splayed over his stomach. Toothpaste smell released by sleepy exhales underlined by something sour.

Sam stares and stares and stares outside, through the little slit of the barely opened blinds, lingering taste he eagerly licked into his mouth a little sweet and a little tasty and a little perfect and he thinks, _oh._

Oh.

Lips all tingly and toes buzzing fireflies-under-your-skin like and he thinks, _thought it was just me._

(Sam had his first kiss when he was nine. He thinks Dean doesn't remember.

Because—) Dean acts like usual, come morning, just the same as always. Acts like nothing ever happened, like he didn't take Sam's breath away and fulfilled larger-than-life dreams only hours ago.

And Sam, he remembers Dad, remembers how sometimes, he says and does things he's seemingly forgotten the next day. So he thinks, _ah_ , because that must be what's happened to Dean, and he thinks, _oh._

So he doesn't dare ask about it because the uncertainty, well. It gives him a certain amount of wiggle room, just enough to dream, to wonder—

To hope. 

(No cute girl called Amber or Ashley or Jenny with pretty hair and cute smiles that Dean imagined when he drunkenly took Sam's very first. Just Sam, because that's who he wants, who _Sam_ wants Dean to want.)

**Author's Note:**

> me: oh I'll never write a first kiss fic no sir not me
> 
> also me, five seconds later:


End file.
